


A Hard Year

by dissolvedingirl (imadra_blue)



Series: Psychosexual Developments [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Canon - TV, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Disturbing Themes, Drama, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Canon Child Abuse, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Season/Series 08, Sexual Repression, Slice of Life, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, one-sided sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/dissolvedingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the times Reid and Hotch touched—and all the times they didn't—during a very hard year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Year

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place throughout Season 8. The title is a reference to Rossi's speech at the end of the season. I write to music, so I made a soundtrack for this series. If you would like to listen to it, please go [here](http://8tracks.com/dissolvedingirl/psychosexual-developments-a-hotch-reid-fanmix).
> 
> Edited to add more transitions and exposition between scenes.

…

> _"Water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink." – Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

…

"I just don't think that sex is a meaningful connection," Spencer insisted, curling the pay phone cord around his fingers. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, but he didn't care. He had been talking for three hours with Maeve already. It was the best Sunday of his life. His head hadn't hurt even once, no matter how bright the afternoon became. Ever since he and Maeve had begun speaking on the phone, he felt better somehow. Quieter.

"Do you say that from experience?" Maeve asked, her tone gentle. Always so gentle.

Spencer licked his lips and let the cord unwind from his fingers. "I'm not saying it's bad or that people shouldn't do it. It relieves physical tension, and it feels nice enough, but it's not a connection on its own, it's just… empty. I much prefer speaking to people, engaging with people intellectually, it's so much more meaningful, like with you—I mean, not that I'm saying—" He sighed. "I mean, I enjoy speaking with you, Maeve."

"I do, too, Spencer. And I agree with you, at least in the sense that sex has no meaning that has not been ascribed to it. And sex without love does feel rather empty. The question of whether Sherlock and Watson ever had sex has little bearing on whether they had a connection. They obviously did. But it is a question worth asking to understand the nature of that connection." Maeve paused. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No," Spencer lied. 

…

Spencer laid his report on the Kansas City family murder case on Hotch's desk. Hotch took a delayed three seconds to look up. A deep line furrowed his brow and a print-out on flight deals to New York City sat on the side of his desk.

"How are your ears?" Spencer asked, deciding to keep to a subject that wasn't so obviously none of his business.

Hotch tilted his head. "Well enough. How is your head?"

"Much better. Haven't had a headache in months." It was all thanks to Maeve. Somehow, she seemed to find what was wrong in Spencer and talked it out of him. He still didn't quite understand what was wrong, and she hadn't elaborated. But she had elaborated on so much else. Spencer smiled a little at the memory of their last conversation. He would never think of Sherlock the same way.

"I'm glad to hear that," Hotch said, yanking Spencer back to the present. "You seem distracted?"

"Oh. Sorry."

Hotch fell silent, but continued to study Spencer, his eyes hooded. Spencer studied him back. The room was darkened; Hotch still tried to ease Spencer's migraine triggers. Generally, Hotch acted like they never had any sexual encounters until he wanted one. The discomfort in his bearing suggested he was about to ask for another one.

"Are you busy at the moment?" Hotch asked, as if on cue.

"Not with anything critical. Since I finished the case report, I'm currently including it in my overall statistical analysis of our work. I also have a book to read before I leave, a recent publication on brain chemistry. I was thinking of buying a few books on childrearing and trauma in childhood. This could be helpful for when I'm babysitting Henry and also for any cases involving children. I'm especially interested in comparing methods from fifty years ago with newer methods. Wait, you have a child. Can you recommend any books?"

Hotch blinked. "I never read any."

"Really? You had a child and never read up on theories of childrearing?"

"No. I generally just try to do the opposite of what my parents did with me. It's proven a sound theory thus far, I think."

Spencer frowned. "What do you mean?" Hotch's tone suggested a hint of levity, but the subject implied something far more unpleasant. Spencer knew almost nothing about Hotch's childhood. He kept that close, closer than anyone Spencer had ever met.

Hotch glanced away. "Never mind."

After a long moment, Spencer asked, "Did you need me for something?" He chose his words carefully. If Hotch had lost interest, it was the perfect out. If he had retained his interest, he would be forced to admit it.

"In a manner of speaking," Hotch said. He closed his door before continuing. "I…" He cricked his neck. "I just wanted to know if you felt like letting me suck you off." His statement was circular, a clear attempt to put the locus of desire on Spencer. Saying the words aloud practically left him twitching.

When Spencer didn't immediately respond, Hotch glanced back at him. "I made you uncomfortable just then."

"You seem uncomfortable, too."

"Then maybe it's best I offer my apologies, and you go back to reading up on childrearing." As usual, Hotch refused to offer anything meaningful about himself. The only way Spencer could truly understand him was if he built a profile on him, and he didn't want to do that. Not to Hotch. The fact that he seemed as awkward as Spencer about sex, but apparently desperate enough to ask anyways, told Spencer enough.

"If you want to, I want to," Spencer said. He spoke to Maeve too infrequently for him to stop craving Hotch's attention. He wasn't even entirely sure Maeve could cure him of that.

After a moment, Hotch searched Spencer's face, gaze dark and intent. He cupped Spencer's neck, his thumb running over Spencer's jaw until he reached his lips. Much like the other times, the motion seemed uncharacteristically tender and affectionate. Like something a real lover might do. This was the part Spencer craved most. When Hotch was all his and no one else's, his eyes burning for Spencer alone.

"Are you sure?" Hotch whispered in Spencer's ear, breath warm. He smelled of a new aftershave, something Spencer couldn't name, expensive and sharp.

"Yes," Spencer whispered back.

"Then remember to be quiet this time. It's three o'clock. Everyone is still here." Hotch cupped Spencer's hip and guided him closer, his body warm. Spencer turned his face towards Hotch, but then Hotch slipped away to sit down in his chair. He didn't meet Spencer's gaze as he tugged at Spencer's belt. This was the part that was too much. Spencer closed his eyes as his belt buckle clinked open. Electric tension shot up his body.

Hotch slowly unzipped Spencer's pants, the plastic sound adding to the tension. Spencer's breath hitched and he shut his eyes even tighter as Hotch yanked down his pants. It felt far more aggressive than before. The moment Hotch's gun-calloused fingers slid around his hardening cock, Spencer covered his mouth with one hand, just barely stifling the noise.

Seemingly determined to test Spencer's ability to remain quiet, Hotch took Spencer's cock in his mouth without hesitation. Hotch ran his tongue along the underside and over the tip before sucking. He gripped Spencer's ass almost possessively before pulling back. Spencer opened his eyes in disappointment. 

"I want to try something new. Is it all right?" Hotch asked, face flushed, lips moist and pink.

"What is it?"

"Willing to find out? I can stop whenever you like."

Spencer nodded. Hotch pulled a small bottle of lotion out of his drawer and poured some over his fingers. He turned back to Spencer, spreading the lotion across his fingertips with his thumb.

"Relax," he whispered.

Spencer had already spent his entire career in the BAU trusting Hotch. He saw no reason to stop. He closed his eyes again, trying to convince himself to relax as Hotch's lotion-slick hands slid over his ass again. The moment Hotch's fingers bumped against Spencer's opening, a small gasp escaped him.

"Yes? No?" Hotch asked, his warm breath heavy against Spencer's bare hip.

"Yes," Spencer choked out. He felt a little queasy at how dirty it was, but that made it all the more intriguing. The desire for experience, to know, to feel, won over his germophobia. Hotch's finger pushed inside of him. It burned, but in a weirdly satisfying way.

"Relax," Hotch whispered again, and took Spencer's cock back in his mouth. Spencer covered his mouth again.

The dual assault of Hotch's warm mouth on Spencer's cock and Hotch's finger pressing inside of him proved dizzying. Then Hotch pressed a spot inside of him—his prostate, no doubt—and new pleasure sparked through him. Spencer moaned into his palm. He felt like a live wire attached to a machine about to explode.

Spencer's knees went weak. He braced himself on the desk, leaning forward so he could hold up his weight without distracting Hotch. Energy built inside of him, crackling dangerously where Hotch touched him. Then the cable wire snapped, unleashing raw electricity across Spencer's body. He came so hard that he had to bite his hand to keep silent.

Spencer felt the papers on the desk slip under his fingers as he struggled to recover his balance. He finally opened his eyes and stared blearily down. He saw Hotch's dark head still buried between his legs. On the desk, the papers describing great rates for flights to New York City and back had slid aside to reveal a note written in a feminine hand.

> _Dear Aaron,_  
>  These are the best rates I could find. You can use their website to get tickets any time. Can't wait to see you in New York! We can make this work!  
>  Love, Beth 

Still shivering with afterglow, Spencer inched the brochures back over the note from Beth. Hotch finished licking him clean and pulled Spencer's pants back up. Spencer gazed down at him, feeling a more familiar tension setting over his shoulders. He wondered if this counted as cheating on Maeve. It definitely counted as cheating on Beth. He knew what that said about both him and Hotch.

Hotch studied Spencer's face with an expression as serious as ever, but his gaze seemed softer. "Thank you, Reid."

Spencer felt an odd lump in his throat. He was being dismissed again, no matter how much more gently. "You still don't want me to touch you?"

Hotch's eyes a bit glazed, his pupils dilated. "I appreciate the sentiment, but no. It's—It's better this way." He sounded distracted, like a man trying to hide his arousal. The desk was proving a convenient cover.

"Well, I'll see you later." Spencer licked his lips and slipped out of Hotch's office, feeling as if he had missed something. He felt filthy, slimy, and his mind whirled over what had just happened, over-examining each moment. He tried to push it away. He wasn't supposed to think about it. It wasn't supposed to mean anything. It was just something that sometimes happened, like rain.

On his way to the men's shower, he noticed Rossi watching him from the doorway of his own office.

…

The thought of little Henry dressed as Spencer for Halloween still put a smile on Spencer's face, though Halloween had long since passed. Even though the team had just reviewed their upcoming Miami case while on the plane, Spencer couldn't focus on the details. He still felt warm from Henry's small arms wrapping around his neck. As happy as speaking to Maeve left him, nothing could compare to the power of touch.

Rossi studied Spencer from his seat across from him so intently that Spencer felt obligated to give him the attention he was clearly seeking. Rossi's expression indicated an uncomfortable knowing. "Everything all right with you and Hotch?"

Spencer cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on his thighs. "Why wouldn't it be?" He tried to keep his tone light, but his voice cracked. He glanced around him, but everyone else was in deep discussion with Garcia.

"You spend a long time in his office sometimes. Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"No. No, everything is fine."

"Right." Rossi nodded and glanced out of the window next to him. "He said the same thing."

"You don't believe him?"

"Beth moved to New York. Having a long-distance relationship is a very different experience. It can be lonely."

"The nature of our jobs can make us lonely."

"You think so?" Rossi turned his sharp gaze on Spencer. "We're not really that lonely, are we? We have each other. We wind up closer than family. We wind up knowing each other better than our lovers. Breeds a strange intimacy." His voice dropped. "So I'm going to ask again, Reid. Everything that went on in that office yesterday all right?"

Spencer decided it was time to switch the spotlight and turn the conversation around. "You know, I noticed you also spend a lot of time in Strauss's office on the slow days. Everything all right there?"

Rossi smirked, and Spencer realized he had just made a fatal mistake. He had likened his encounters with Hotch to Rossi's affair with Strauss. "All right, Reid. If that's how you want to play it, that's how we'll play it. For now." Rossi fell silent then, staring out of the plane window.

Spencer swallowed hard and wondered how long Rossi had known.

…

It took less than a second for Spencer to notice how tense Hotch grew when details emerged on Barry Flynn. Though they were very different sorts of men, Spencer could easily compare certain aspects of Flynn's life to Hotch's. Flynn was a successful man forced to hide his homosexuality. His affairs happened where no one could see, no one could know. Coming out could ruin Barry Flynn. By the time they rescued him and closed the case, Hotch was a silent ball of tension, his palms bearing visible marks where his fingernails had dug in.

Everyone else kept their distance from Hotch. If they understood why, they remained discreet about it. Spencer was the only one who volunteered to ride with Hotch to the airport. He wasn't sure what he expected. He hoped Hotch might open up a little. But Hotch remained silent the entire trip, up until the point the SUV refused to start at the gas station. He called Rossi and asked him for a jump. After he put the phone away, he then asked Spencer if he wanted a blowjob.

When Spencer said 'yes', his voice cracked. The naked lust on Hotch's face made it impossible for Spencer to refuse. He wanted that attention for as long as he could possibly get it, no matter how risky the environment. Hotch wasted no time taking him to the men's bathroom. Spencer could barely believe what was happening when Hotch pushed him against the wall and yanked down his pants.

The bathroom tile felt frozen under Spencer's back. The air conditioning ran too cold, and every wet spot on his body from the Seattle rain stung with chill. All except for the spots Hotch touched. Those parts felt as if they had caught a fever. Spencer swallowed back a moan as Hotch's tongue rolled over the tip of his cock. Everything seemed so unreal, even as it was happening.

Obscene, wet noises escaped Hotch's mouth. His fingers wrapped so tightly around Spencer's thighs that Spencer was sure he would leave bruises. But it was a secondary concern. Hotch sucked at him like a man dying of thirst. Spencer covered his mouth and pressed further back against the tiled wall until he came, body shuddering from the effort. Hotch drank him dry, as he always did, greedy for every drop of cum. It was a heady moment, flattering in the filthiest way.

Hotch stood up, his breath hitching. He planted a hand against the tiled wall, pupils blown wide, licking his lips. When Spencer glanced down to tuck himself back into his trousers and zip up, he noticed Hotch was sporting an intimidating erection.

Spencer put a hand on Hotch's chest, feeling Hotch's heart beat rapidly beneath his palm. "Will you let me touch you this time?"

Hotch's face flushed red, and his gaze still heated when he turned it on Spencer. But he shook his head. "No. Please wait outside for the others."

Pursing his lips, Spencer left to clean up. Hotch remained in the bathroom stall, but Spencer never heard a sound. Whatever he did in there was for him alone. If he did anything at all. Spencer walked out into the convenience store.

At the cash register, Spencer found Rossi buying mints. Rossi glanced at Spencer, his gaze raking him from head to toe. His expression suggested he knew exactly what had happened in the bathroom. Rossi was both the most experienced profiler and Hotch's friend. There would be no hiding anything from him.

"JJ's outside, preparing to jump your SUV," Rossi said, popping one of his newly purchased mints into his mouth. "Would you like a mint? Or is Hotch the one I should be offering them to?"

Spencer took a mint, hoping his face didn't look as red as it felt, and slid it in his mouth. "I wouldn't bother asking him anything. His answer is always no," he said, and walked back out into the rain to help JJ.

…

Things with Maeve were becoming all too real, though Spencer had yet to meet her in the flesh. Her casual profession of love still rang in Spencer's ears. He carried her gift of _The Narrative of John Smith_ with him at all times. Her note inside of it explained love in a way he had never understood before.

The next time Hotch asked for sex, Spencer refused. And the time after that. Hotch accepted each refusal with his usual courtesy and professionalism. Spencer didn't know how he felt about it. A part of him still craved every tiny shred of Hotch's attention, but all the other parts were entirely focused on Maeve. He couldn't fail to meet her again.

After their case in Alabama, Hotch called Spencer into his office. His squared shoulders and set jaw indicated an all too familiar discomfort.

"I'm not really in the mood," Spencer said after closing the door.

Hotch swallowed hard and glanced down. "I expect I deserved that. But I didn't call you in here to ask for that." He cleared his throat. "I spoke with Rossi recently."

Spencer studied Hotch's bowed head and glanced about the office. Everything was neat and carefully arranged. Not a stray object in sight. As standard-issue as the half-empty coffee mug on Hotch's desk.

Hotch looked back up, eyes warm with what seemed regret. "I'm officially passing your evaluations to Morgan. It will be good practice for him when he's ready to become Unit Chief himself. I remain your field supervisor, of course. I hope that's acceptable to you."

"Rossi told you to do that?" Spencer asked, frowning.

"Not exactly. But I decided that it was best."

Spencer licked his lips and nodded. Trying to understand what was going on with Hotch was a distraction. And Spencer didn't need the distraction any more than Hotch did. Hotch had Beth, and Spencer had Maeve to focus on now. Someone who cared about him as much as he cared about her, someone who let him give to her what she gave to him. Empty, one-sided sex wasn't what Spencer wanted. It was just an excuse for Spencer to steal attention that Hotch should be reserving for Beth.

"Well, that was all I wanted to tell you," Hotch continued. "You should get home. It's getting late."

"Thank you. Good night, Hotch." Spencer ducked his head and turned to leave. Just as his hand reached for the doorknob, he heard Hotch's voice again.

"And congratulations," Hotch said.

When Spencer glanced back, Hotch bent over some paperwork on his desk. "For what?" Spencer asked.

"On your girlfriend." Hotch paused, but didn't look up. "JJ told me. I wish you two the best of luck."

Spencer nodded and slipped out. It was time to close the awkward chapter they had opened months ago and to open the next chapter in their lives. Spencer would miss being touched, but it was a small loss compared to the gains Maeve had given him—and continued to give him.

On Sunday, he would propose another date with Maeve. He would make sure it was safe for her. Soon, he would have someone to touch him again—someone who would let him touch back.

Their connection would be the most meaningful.

…

Howling filled the room when Maeve's body hit the floor. Spencer tried to crawl to her, to pull her away from her murderer, but someone grabbed him, held him back. It was then that he realized the howling was coming from him.

In his lifetime, Spencer had been bullied, humiliated, abandoned, rejected, tortured, and nearly killed. He had grown up with a schizophrenic mother and battled a drug addiction. He had suffered from debilitating migraines. But nothing had hurt like watching a bullet pass through the head of someone he loved.

It was Hotch who sat with Spencer after the police came and went, saying nothing. It was Hotch who drove him home that night and practically carried him up to his apartment. It was Hotch who took his shoes off and tucked him into bed and told him to take as much time as he needed off work.

It was the scent of Hotch's aftershave in Spencer's nose that first night he fell asleep without Maeve in the world. It should have been Maeve's perfume.

…

Not even Spencer could wallow in abject misery forever. He didn't even really know how many days had passed since he locked himself in his apartment. Upon opening his front door, he discovered it had been long enough to build up a collection of sympathy baskets from his teammates.

Spencer knew which basket was Hotch's without even reading the card. Lying in it was a bouquet of white roses—the exact same type of flower found at Hayley's funeral. Spencer had a clear memory of Hotch and Jack placing those same flowers on her casket. Having a bouquet of his own left him sobbing for a solid twenty minutes.

After he composed himself, he found canned orange juice, a box of oatmeal, his favorite coffee, and a note beneath the flowers. It took Spencer a full two minutes to recall Hotch had once told Morgan that he made oatmeal and orange juice for Jack's breakfast, same as Hotch's mother had made for him. The note had been written in Hotch's scrawling, embellished hand:

> _I listen to Hayley's music. It seems your connection to Maeve was through books. Keep them. You will want to throw them away at first, but resist the urge. Eventually, you will want to read them again. And you will need to read them.  
>  \- Hotch_

Spencer looked up from the note and around at his apartment. Most of his books lay scattered on the floor, thrown and knocked aside in his anger and grief. He set the note down. Now he knew what needed to be done—after he headed to San Francisco to help the only people in his life left who cared about him.

…

Watching movies proved to be one the few reliable distractions from thoughts of Maeve. Spencer found slasher movies the most relaxing. They were so neat, so well-typified. There was a clear pattern, a clear point. So much easier than real life. And they had one of his favorite film tropes: The Final Girl.

Be it Laurie Strode or Ellen Ripley or Nancy Thompson, the Final Girl survived when others died. Sometimes she was rescued by a man. Sometimes she wasn't. But she defeated the monsters, at least until the next film. Most importantly, she survived no matter her odds.

Maeve should have been the Final Girl. She should have lived, and Diane Turner should have died alone. But instead, they died together, and everyone else had to live with that.

Spencer forced himself back to his present reality, away from the dangerous thoughts that filled his mind when thinking too long on Maeve and Diane. Hotch sat across from Spencer on the plane, his fingers curled over his lips as he read over the reports on Bruce Morrison and his daughter.

"You know, scholars debate whether Ellen Ripley is a Final Girl," Spencer said, words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Hotch glanced up from the reports on his lap. His right eyebrow quirked a bit as he studied Spencer, but he otherwise gave no sign of bewilderment or irritation. He had one leg crossed over the other, and Spencer realized Hotch had taken his shoes off. Hotch had to be very tired to take any part of his armor off in front of others. Cases that involved families always weighed on him the heaviest.

" _Alien_ is a horror film, but it's also a science fiction film," Spencer continued since he hadn't been shut down. "The conventions of science fiction have made scholars question if Ellen Ripley can be considered a Final Girl. In most horror films, the Final Girl is the one who abstains from sex and is usually the most docile and conventional. The girls who trouble the ideal of female adolescence and purity are the ones who die. But Ellen is a mother at the beginning of _Alien_. Furthermore, she is a mother who even abandoned her daughter for work. Technical work often reserved for men, no less."

Hotch set the reports into the empty seat beside him, his gaze never leaving Spencer's face. "She's also not adolescent."

"No. And she is not rescued at the end by a man—often a key component of the Final Girl, such as with Laurie Strode. But even within the horror genre, there are variations. The Final Girls do not always abstain from sex, though they are usually much less sexually aggressive than other female characters. One scholar disputed the assignation of Ripley as the Final Girl more because she believed _Alien_ lacked a sexual theme and followed science fiction film conventions."

"Did it, though?" Hotch looked thoughtful. "I recall at one point that Ripley stripped down to her underwear. And the alien itself had a strong theme of rape and impregnation, given that it was forcibly implanted and grew inside its victim. Only most of its victims were male, since most of the crew was male, and the crew was murdered in ways I would associate with an sexual sadist using violence as a physical substitute for the act of sex. That's unusual in both horror and science fiction films, I think."

"Exactly. The initial rape-like impregnation happened to a male character. But still Ripley was the one who survived. The filmmakers had intended for her to be male initially, but they changed her to a woman. And she was not part of the sexualized violence of the alien, making her pure enough. The theme of _Alien_ is just as much horror as it is science fiction. There's no clear division. So I think she's a Final Girl. Just with a science fiction environment and a subversion of certain sexualized violence tropes. And I think she's my favorite."

Hotch nodded and pressed his lips together to moisten them before speaking. "I always enjoyed the _Alien_ films myself. Ellen Ripley was a well-crafted character. I prefer the second film, but the first one is still great."

"She always survives. Even when everyone else dies. And when she did die, she came back to life." Spencer watched Hotch's lips, now moistened, glisten in the weak light of the plane. Even as dead as he felt inside, an urge to feel those lips again flashed through him.

Hotch glanced down, frowning a little. "And in other genres, women are often depicted as love interests for male characters and then murdered just to further their plot—or worse, for unnecessary tragedy."

"That's true. They call it 'fridging', a term borrowed from a comic book where the women in a superhero's life were repeatedly killed and one literally shoved into his refrigerator."

"Real life is not fiction, of course. But there is an unfortunate trend of dead and victimized women in our lives, both professional—" Hotch paused and swallowed. "—and personal. I wish I knew whether it was media or society that contributes to this." He rubbed his temples. "I haven't watched a horror film in years."

"Why not?"

"I often feel like I'm living in one."

Spencer glanced out of the dark window next to him. "So do I. That's why I like watching them. They sometimes have a happy ending."

Hotch turned back to his reports. "If we were in a horror film, you would have died instead of Maeve. I wouldn't call that a happy ending, either."

"After Haley died, at least for a little while, didn't you wish it had been you instead of her?"

The raw, unnerved look in Hotch's eyes told Spencer that the answer was 'yes'.

"There are no happy endings, I guess," Spencer whispered.

…

After the unsub in Austin turned out to be a young homosexual man abused during conversion therapy, Spencer kept an eye on Hotch. No cracks appeared in Hotch's flawless emotional armor—at least not until he spoke to the woman who had molested the boys. Yet, his vicious dialogue with the woman wasn't particularly revealing. Hotch had always been more vicious with the child molesters and abusers. It was his tone of utter disgust that piqued Spencer's curiosity.

Back at the police station, Spencer watched Hotch finish the conclusory interview with Paul. Hotch treated Paul with a care he usually reserved for victims and their families. And even though he was a murderer, Paul Westin was a victim as well.

The interview proved illuminating—not for Paul's statements, which were exactly what would fit the profile—but for what Hotch revealed. He slouched in his chair and maintained eye contact with Paul. He spoke gently and avoided laying blame at Paul's feet. He even offered comfort over the loss of Paul's friend. Hotch seemed determined to seem non-threatening to Paul—and offered commiseration. Such sympathetic tactics were useful in certain interviews, but unnecessary when Paul was already compliant.

When Hotch exited the interrogation room, he blinked at Spencer. "Where is everyone else?" he asked.

"They went ahead to the airport. JJ and Blake already shut down the conversion camp. I told them I would wait for you."

Hotch hesitated, then nodded. He slipped the case files into his briefcase and then marched out of the police station, pausing only to thank the detectives for their help. Spencer followed him.

"Were you sent to conversion therapy, too?" Spencer asked once they were inside the SUV, the question bursting out before he could bite down on it.

Hotch paused without looking at Spencer, then started the SUV and pulled out. He didn't answer the question until they were on the road. "No."

"But you commiserated with Paul Westin."

Hotch swallowed.

Spencer realized he was angry at Hotch. Angry at him for failing to save Maeve. Angry at him for the shallow, unfulfilling sex. Angry at him for being so damn repressed. There was a part of him that wanted to get under Hotch's skin, to make him feel something for once. "Given your anger towards child abusers, avoidance of most child victims, inclination to bullying behavior, and overly restrictive sexual contact with me, I expect you suffered some sort of child abuse as a result of your non-heterosexual tendencies."

As a street light passed over them, the white of Hotch's knuckles around the steering wheel became visible. "Are you profiling me, Reid?" Hotch asked, his tone careful and devoid of any emotion. Standard-issue FBI man. His best defense to any attack, it seemed.

Spencer sighed and leaned back against his chair. He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to relax, to not think of Maeve lying in a pool of blood mingled with that of her murderer's. He tried not to think of how nicely a gun fit in his hand these days. And he especially tried to erase the image of him strangling Diane Turner with his bare hands.

"It was my father," Hotch said after a long time. "He preferred to beat the sin out of me with his own bare fists. And my mother—" His voice caught. "Then I was sent to military school. That was my father's version of conversion therapy."

Though he inhaled in response, Spencer left his eyes closed. He suspected that made Hotch more comfortable. And it certainly made him more comfortable not to see any pain on Hotch's features. It all made a sudden, painful sense, why Hotch couldn't accept touch from another man. Why he had kept things so shallow and fleeting with Reid and then ran towards Beth. Spencer's anger drained.

Hotch didn't say anything else. He pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the SUV, breathing heavily. Spencer opened his eyes, understanding now why Hotch hadn't gone to the camp with JJ and Blake to shut it down. Spencer glanced out the window at the night-draped Austin city streets. He had suffered various forms of bullying when people made assumptions about him, everything from taunting to physical beatings, but he had escaped parental abuse. His mother had been schizophrenic, not abusive. And he doubted she would care that he was bisexual if she were lucid enough to comprehend it.

After a moment, Hotch cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you feel like driving?"

"I can drive."

They switched places, and Hotch settled into the passenger's side, his jaw set into a block. "Talk about something, Reid. Anything."

Knowing Hotch didn't want to hear about Spencer's revenge-murder fantasies and discussing Maeve could only remind Hotch of Hayley, Spencer wracked his brain for a topic that wouldn't be upsetting. After a long moment, he began reciting _The Narrative of John Smith_ for want of anything else.

"'Gout or rheumatism, Doctor?' I asked. 'A little of both,' said he. 'And pray, sir, what is the exact difference between them?' I continued, under a natural impulse to gain a little knowledge in exchange for the red-hot skewer which was transfixing my right foot."

Hotch breathed out and closed his eyes, apparently content to listen to the sound of Spencer's voice during the rest of the drive to the airport.

…

Weeks passed without Spencer and Hotch speaking outside of a case. It seemed easier for Hotch to always pretend that something unpleasant didn't exist. Spencer couldn't claim to be any better in that regard, so he let it be. There hadn't been many opportunities for them to interact privately, in any case.

Two days after returning from South Dakota, Spencer finally found himself alone with Hotch. He drew up short when he entered the dimly-lit breakroom and found Hotch pouring coffee. Almost everyone else had gone home for the evening. The sight of the water cooler brought back the memory of one of their sexual encounters. Spencer's stomach did a flip-flop. Part of him longed for that touch again. Another part found the shallow and physical connection repulsive.

"Are you sleeping now?" Hotch asked without turning around.

"How did you—" Spencer sighed. "Rossi told you."

"Is that a problem?"

Spencer considered it. Concern for him seemed irritatingly compulsory since Maeve died, but Hotch had also dropped everything, including his precious time with Jack, to help Spencer with Maeve. He had done everything Spencer asked and then some. No matter how unfulfilling their sexual encounters were, that counted for something.

"No. And I'm sleeping most nights now," Spencer finally said.

"And the urges you mentioned when talking to Peter Harper in Saint Paul?"

It seemed everyone talked to Hotch about Spencer. But talking about his urges was beyond him. He filled his water bottle instead.

Hotch moved closer, close enough that Spencer could smell his expensive cologne. "I know your psych profile, Reid. And I know you hold it together. But everything you've been through this year is a stressor."

Spencer clutched his water bottle and turned to gaze at Hotch. Though Hotch had only an inch on him, he seemed so much taller. Perhaps it was because he was so physically solid. Spencer felt like a twig standing next to an oak tree. But he doubted it was merely a physical perception. He studied Hotch's eyes, brown and intent. There was concern in his gaze, not condemnation.

After a long moment, Spencer finally asked, "Did you dream of killing Foyet, over and over, for very long after Hayley died?"

Hotched studied Spencer and then cupped his face, as he always had before performing oral sex. His touch seemed feather-light this time, and his thumb gentle as he stroked Spencer's jaw. "Sometimes, I still do," he whispered.

Spencer tilted his face into Hotch's hand, warming at the touch, and closed his eyes. It was the first thing that had felt good to him in months. He tilted his head so Hotch's thumb brushed across his lips. Hotch continued to slide his thumb over Spencer's lips, his touch electric. 

Rossi cleared his throat from the breakroom doorway, and Hotch jumped back as if burned. Spencer opened his eyes, face heating. His mouth suddenly ran dry.

"For entirely no reason whatsoever, I'd like to remind you two that the breakroom is a general community area. Anyone can walk in here, at any time. I don't know why, but you might find this information useful in the future," Rossi said, and then headed to the counter to pour himself some coffee.

Hotch cleared his throat and slipped out of the breakroom, adjusting his tie. Rossi picked up Hotch's abandoned FBI mug and turned around, but Hotch was already gone.

"He forgot his coffee. You wanna give it to him?" Rossi asked.

"No." Spencer looked away. "If he wants it bad enough, he'll have to come get it." He walked out of the room, making sure to keep his water bottle firmly in hand this time.

…

Spencer had to wonder why Hotch even bothered to take vacations at this point. Surely he could have predicted his week in New York City with Beth would be interrupted by work. But this time it hadn't been the office that called Hotch in. It had been his brother. Spencer had to imagine the case took its toll. Hotch had even suspected Sean of murder until Spencer had offered him another way to look at the situation. The Hotchner brothers seemed to reach some sort of accord after they solved the case, but the tension between them remained.

After Sean's arrest, Hotch asked Spencer to oversee Sean's statement as a courtesy before the local police booked him. Though Sean hadn't murdered anyone, he had still been party to a number of lesser crimes. Spencer did as asked. He didn't have any brothers, so he couldn't hope to understand the nature of their relationship, but it seemed rather messy.

Sean Hotchner appeared the very opposite of his older brother in every possible way. He was fair-haired, close to Spencer's age, and smiles came easy to him. But those smiles rarely seemed to reach his eyes. He smoked the cigarette Spencer had allowed him, even though Spencer kept coughing, and studied him with the only thing he shared with Hotch: a blistering stare.

"You're the pretty boy in Aaron's little team of profilers, aren't you? Just his type, I guess."

Spencer frowned, his fingers tightening around the pen he held. "Excuse me?"

Sean looked away. "You have my statement now. We're done, right?"

After a moment of studying Sean, Spencer finished filling out the rest of the statement and closed the file. Sean had been cooperative, but he had grown moody. The dark circles under his eyes, the way he scratched his arms, and how his gaze kept darting around the room suggested drug withdrawal. Spencer doubted Sean had stopped using ecstasy as long ago as he claimed. It seemed Spencer had more in common with Hotch's brother than Hotch himself.

Spencer stood up, but after a moment, he couldn't resist one last question. "You said you guess I'm just your brother's type. You know what his type is?"

Sean took a final drag of his cigarette and then put it out in the ashtray. "I know what his type isn't. Ironically, it's usually the exact type that he's in a committed relationship with." Sean raked his gaze over Spencer. "You're a profiler. I'm sure you can figure it out."

Spencer frowned, but said nothing. He felt guilty even having this conversation behind Hotch's back. But Sean very clearly knew about Hotch's sexual preferences. Perhaps even more than Spencer did.

"You don't know?" Sean asked. "Well, that's my cue to shut the fuck up."

Sensing that Sean wouldn't elaborate, Spencer stood up and signaled for the local police to come in. "Is there anything you would like me to tell your brother for you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sean said with a dark chuckle. "Tell him to call our mother some time. Who knows, maybe he'll get lucky and she'll die of shock when he does." He stood up and let the police handcuff him.

Spencer watched Sean walk away towards his holding cell, wondering if anyone had made it out of the Hotchner family in one piece. He suspected not.

…

One case always seemed to bleed into the next, and nowhere was that more obvious than with John Curtis. He had stalked the team for the months as the Replicator, his hatred for them obvious in every photograph he left behind. When they finally caught him, it had cost Erin Strauss her life.

The night John Curtis died was one of the most eventful of Spencer's life. It wasn't every night that he survived a helicopter crash, helped free a woman from a booby-trapped chair, and watched a house blow up with the man who murdered his section chief inside. Spencer's hands didn't shake until he finally went home. He had never craved dilaudid after Maeve had died; his grief had been too raw, too profound. And he never wanted to dull it even once. But after seeing an all too familiar grief on Rossi's face, he wanted it. He wanted to erase everyone else's pain.

The days that passed until Strauss's funeral went by in a blur as Spencer fought off his craving. The entire team was on forced leave, so he stayed home. He scratched his arms bloody, stopped drinking coffee, and tried to sleep as much and as often as possible. His entire body ached from the helicopter crash, his head pounded from the lack of caffeine. He almost took a handful of painkillers, but then he threw them all down the sink and took a long hot bath instead. He tried not to think, not to feel, so he reread his favorite books. When his attention wandered, he watched television. By the time it came to dress for Strauss's funeral, he stared at his reflection. His hair was too long, his face too pale, his eyes too watery. But he hadn't given into his craving for dilaudid once.

After Strauss's private memorial service at Rossi's house, Spencer headed out to his car. To his surprise, Hotch was leaning against it, arms crossed, staring up at the night sky. It was only three years ago that Hotch had held his dead wife in his arms. Less than a week ago, he had held Strauss as she died. Spencer wondered how many corpses it would take to finally break Hotch. Life seemed determined to find out.

"I forgot to tell you before that your brother wants you to call your mother," Spencer said, jingling his car keys. "He seemed to think she would die of shock if you did." It was all he could think to say.

"Mm. She just might," Hotch said, frowning. "Are you all right?"

"I'll live. Will you?"

"That's what the doctors told me." Hotch's smile was fleeting. "I'm glad you're all right. I was worried when the helicopter went down." Spencer recalled Hotch looking back at him, eyes wide, just before the helicopter crashed. He had looked as if he wanted to say something. Spencer wondered what it was, but it was just as well Hotch hadn't said it. No doubt it would complicate things.

"We survived," Spencer said.

"Not all of us."

Spencer glanced down at the pavement. There was nothing to say to that. He scratched at his forearms, trying to ignore the cold craving for dilaudid in his system. He wanted to dull the pain, just for one night, but he knew it would only make things worse. And there would never be just one night. He had to keep fighting it.

Hotch cupped Spencer's face, his touch somehow burning the dilaudid craving away. His thumb brushed over Spencer's lips, still soft and gentle. Spencer tilted his face into Hotch's warm palm and closed his eyes. He didn't understand the power of Hotch's touch at all. The thought of almost anyone else alive touching him made his skin crawl.

"Why does this keep happening? Why do people keep dying?" Spencer whispered. "There's no reason for this. They just keep dying, over and over, the people we love best. Why? For cheap drama? I hate this story. It didn't have to end this way."

"You're right. It didn't. But the story's not over yet."

Hotch withdrew his hand. It felt as if the night air suddenly turned chill. Spencer ached with the loss, realizing that he craved Hotch's touch—not sex, but his _touch_ —more than dilaudid. He had been indulging in an addiction all along.

"I remember what you told JJ after you thought Prentiss died. And I know losing Maeve was hard for you." Hotch studied him. "Only Dave was close to Strauss, but we're all close to him. I have never had cause to doubt your sobriety, Reid. I want you to know that. But it has been a hard year. And not just because of John Curtis. So if you need anything, you tell me."

Spencer smiled, though it felt like an effort. "I have everything I need. All that's left is want. And it's all for things I can't have." 

"I know the feeling." Hotch's gaze was so intent that it was Spencer that had to look down, feeling as if a fever spiked through him. The moment he sensed Hotch drawing near, Spencer backed away.

"Good night, Hotch. Tell Beth that I said 'hello'."

Hotch dropped his gaze and swallowed hard. "Good night, Reid." He nodded once before walking away.

Spencer let himself into his car and sat there, trying to remember how to breathe, until he felt ready to drive himself home. He almost regretted how good Hotch was at taking a hint.


End file.
